f you’re a “My Life on the D-List” fan like myself, you probably had your first experience with trichotillomania on that series. Tom, Kathy Griffin’s tour manager, compulsively pulled his eyelashes out. Now, a few years later, Olivia Munn has admitted that she, too, goes for the lashes to deal with whatever’s bothering her. She went on to admit that whenever she leaves the house, she has to buy a new set of falsies at the drugstore. She claims her habit is more annoying than it is painful and says that moving around a lot as a kid — Air Force brat and all — gave her anxiety that’s evidently manifested itself in this disorder. Read more…
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I have a confession to make: I’m a popper. Not a popper of pills, mind you. I am a popper of pimples. I know that’s gross, and I’m sorry. However, I do think that, at the very least, I owe it to you, dear reader, to hold myself responsible: My name is Sara Barron, and I’m a pimple-popping addict.
My mother was also an addict, and these sorts of things, see, they run in the family. I first noticed I had a problem just as soon as I went through puberty. I’d get delightful bursts of whiteheads on my face and, I swear to god, it was like they were talking to me. Pop me … pop me … you simply HAVE to pop me. The idea that some people get zits, and are capable of just leaving them alone seems utterly bizarre to me. If you’d said, “Sara: Here’s the deal. There’s a ripe and massive whitehead on your face. You can either A) Pop it, but then you have to run the Boston Marathon, or B) Not pop it, but then you won’t have to run the Boston Marathon,” I’d be like, “Get me some bandaids for my nipples, motherf**ker. I will be running that marathon. And I will be popping that zit.” Keep reading »